


(Second) Best Night Ever

by yummysubculture



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yummysubculture/pseuds/yummysubculture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened at Foxwoods stayed at Foxwoods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Second) Best Night Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this picture: https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/8Di9l9sVbwMbFh2YclJeQg?feat=directlink
> 
> If you'd like a soundtrack: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OF2620oAXYs

This should be one of the best nights of Brad Marchand’s life—obviously game 7 would have to be the absolute pinnacle, that moment of hoisting the cup, of knowing he’d already achieved something so great so early in his career—but tonight should be pretty far up there.  The booze is flowing freely and the place is packed with gorgeous girls gagging for a Bruin.  He should be trying to reach record high blood alcohol levels while lying in the middle of a pile of beautiful naked women or something.

 

He isn’t.

 

Yeah, he’s having a good time, how could he not be?  He’s partying hard with the best guys around, cruising fast and high.  But still, there’s a hard edge of unease, of dissatisfaction.  It’s small, but its very existence is eating at him.  He’s pretty sure he has everything he’s ever wanted all right here—why the fuck is he not having the (second) best night ever? 

 

He slumps a bit in his chair.

 

As soon as his shoulders droop, Tyler is there— like he has Marchy-isn’t-being-fun-anymore senses or something.

 

“Come on, man!” He yells into Brad’s ear, grinning, and drags him up on stage.  He thrusts a bottle into Brad’s hand and starts dancing spastically, swiveling his hips like a puckbunny, wasted and desperate for attention.

 

Brad dances as well, trying to out do Seguin for craziness—he does have a reputation to preserve—losing his shirt and working up a sweat.  A couple of hot blondes in really tight dresses are giggling and pouting at him— he thinks the tall one’s hand gestures mean she’s suggesting a threesome— and he feels like he’s finally starting to get into the groove of the evening when Tyler stumbles into his peripheral vision.

 

He looks totally wrecked. 

 

His hair is spiked wildly as if he just pulled off his helmet after a particularly intense game, his pants are riding so low he’s almost exposed and he’s completely drenched, sweat dripping down the angles of his face and the contours of his muscles.

 

For a moment, Brad totally forgets about the girls, forgets about the party, hell, forgets about the fucking Cup as he watches a heavy bead of sweat roll from the hollow of Tyler’s neck and, changing course with Tyler’s twisting body, travel down his chest, just passing a nipple before getting lost in the ripple of his abs.

 

He’s struck with an overwhelming urge to chase it with his tongue.

 

He makes it most of the way across the stage and has an arm around Tyler’s waist before his brain catches up and he realizes that’s a stupid idea.  He turns it into a sweaty one-armed bro-hug instead.

If he’s happened to angle himself so that Tyler’s leg every so often brushes against the erection that may or may not be starting to form, that is totally coincidental.

 

He sees the flashes of iPhones and cameras and the teeny tiny part of his brain that still gives a shit realizes that whatever happens on this stage will be all over the internet tomorrow and no matter how many times the two of them get photographed sitting in each other’s laps, or how many times Segs calls him his “lover” on Twitter, it would be really capital b Bad if someone took a picture of him sucking on his teammate’s neck, his chest, or, oh god, his cock.

 

Stumbling out of Brad’s loose grasp, Tyler gyrates a little more forcefully than he probably meant to, his jeans slipping just a tiny bit further down his hips.

 

Brad can see his pubic hair.

 

Everyone can see his pubic hair.

 

He should be more grossed out by that, he thinks, and also when the fuck did he start doing shit like thinking about other men’s pubes?  He passes the mostly empty bottle of Kristal to the tall blonde girl.  He’s drunk enough for tonight.

 

Tyler looks to be winding up for another enthusiastic hip swivel and Brad decides to save him the embarrassment of having cell phone pictures of his dick falling out posted all over the internet. 

 

Or, maybe, thinks the same part of his mind that seems to be suddenly preoccupied with other men’s pubes, he wants to save that sight for himself.

 

He hooks an arm around Tyler’s waist again, this time to guide him down off the stage and away from the crowd.  They’re most of the way to Brad’s room before Tyler strings together a sentence Brad can actually decipher.

 

“Why are we going away from the party? Braaaaaaad.  Maaaaarchy… are you cockblocking meeeeeeeee?”

 

“Obviously I want you all for myself, stud” He says lightly, waggling his eyebrows in a parody of suggestiveness as he swipes his door key and holds the door open for Tyler’s drunk ass. 

 

He tries not to think about how dangerously close he is to being serious.

 

“Duh” Tyler snorts, stumbling yet again and trying to make it look like he meant to move by pinning Brad to the inside of the door.  It slams the final few inches with a loud bang.

 

They are both startled enough to realize what positions they’ve assumed—Brad pressed against the back of the door, Tyler’s taller frame molded to him from knees to nipples, his hands pinning Brad’s wrists above his head.

Brad gets the sudden feeling he’s about to be ravished.

 

It is quickly followed by the feeling that that’s what has been missing from his evening.

 

He’s frightened by the possibility and turns his face away from Tyler’s, but Tyler’s Marchy senses must be tingling again, because Tyler mirrors the movement and soon their lips are meeting and Tyler’s hands are tightening around his wrists, his leg slipping between Brad’s.

 

Yup, a thorough ravishing from Tyler Seguin is apparently exactly what was missing from this otherwise perfect night out—from his whole life— fuck, why had they not been doing this all the time?  Tyler is sucking on his tongue, desperate, filthy, almost choking in his enthusiasm. He opens his eyes, but the other man’s face is just too close and Brad’s eyes start to cross with the effort of trying to look at Tyler.

 

No, this isn’t working—he needs to see him.

 

Brad shifts his weight forward to free his hands—twisting them around until he’s the one holding onto Tyler’s wrists, using that to pull him further into the suite.

 

With the lights off, it takes him a minute to find the bed.  Forgoing a lamp, Brad throws open the curtain on the room’s massive window, filling the room with the glow of outdoor lighting and moonlight.  They were high enough up that you’d need some kind of super spy zoom lens to photograph them.  Probably.  Whatever.

 

When Brad turns back to the bed, Tyler is sprawled across it, his impossibly long torso arched slightly as he digs his shoulders in, squirming to get comfortable.  His pants have finally gotten too low for propriety and the base of his cock is visible where his erection and ceaseless movements have pulled his waistband down.  It’s so easy for Brad to kneel over him and slide them the rest of the way off.  Effortless. Natural.

 

He’s hovering over Tyler’s abdomen, breathing heavily and it’s obviously driving the younger man crazy if the noises he’s making are any indication.  Brad inches forward that last little bit, pressing the side of his face into Tyler’s stomach.  It’s probably pretty un-sexy, but the sound Tyler makes at the contact—a choked whine deep in his throat—is definitely one of the sexiest things Brad has ever heard. 

 

He drags his mouth down Tyler’s abs and, carefully avoiding his cock, starts biting at the inside of his thighs. 

 

Tyler begins to whine again as Brad’s mouth moves further away from where Tyler wants it most, but the sound quickly changes to a breathy sigh once Brad’s mouth has worked its way down the inside of his leg, now hooked over Brad’s shoulder.

If he’s this blissed-out from Brad’s mouth on his thigh…

 

Brad sits back on his haunches, pulling Tyler’s legs a little further apart and settling between them.  He knows better than to let himself think too hard about any of this, opting instead to focus on the way every muscle in Tyler’s body clenches at once as Brad lowers his head, then releases at the first tentative touch of Brad’s tongue on his entrance.

 

Alright, Marchy, you’ve got this, he thinks, focus on the quiver of his abs, the little shivers that run though his body on each inward thrust.  Focus on the way his hands grasp at your hair, sliding through sweat and gel, the way he sounds a bit like he’s dying as you lick your way inside.  Ignore the fact that that your tongue is…  that you’re licking… in Tyler’s…  whatever. 

 

Noises.  Writhing.  Tyler. 

 

Good.

 

Brad changes his angle ever so slightly and Tyler fists both hands in his hair and bucks so hard into Brad’s mouth that his hips lift clear off the bed.

 

Definitely good.

 

He braces Tyler’s hips with his hands, pushing him firmly onto the bed as he redoubles his efforts with his tongue.  It takes all of about a minute of this before Tyler gives a primal groan, jerking free of Brad’s hands and coming powerfully.

 

All over Brad’s face.

 

Roll with it Marchy, it’s kind of fucking hot and you know it.

 

He climbs off the bed and grabs the only piece of clothing he can find—Tyler’s pants—and wipes his face.  When he gets back on top of Tyler, ready to fuck him senseless, he realizes the kid doesn’t seem too into it.  In fact, it looks like he’s passed out cold.

 

Getting up in Tyler’s face to make sure he really is dead to the world, he sneaks a tiny peck to his forehead and can’t stop a stupid grin from forming.

 

“Fuck, kid, you owe me one hell of an orgasm when you wake up.”


End file.
